the killing pattern
by gustin puckerman
Summary: And maybe, it won't ever end. one-shot.


**I haven't watch Avatar Korra the series, which I should have, but I live in the Southern East Asia- so it wouldn't come until next year (i think). The point is, I don't know if my story will fit into the plot Avatar Korra the series. Just treat this fic as if The Legend of Korra didn't exist just yet. My first try. I hope you enjoy it. -bbm.**

**disclaimer: I don't own anything**.

* * *

_the killing pattern_

.

She grows up with him.

Katara- the beautiful magical blue (whatever blue means) queen which sparks and glows even underneath the darkest of night- the lover, doesn't know much about him as much as she does. And she's merely the faint green smudge on the dullest of walls. And yet, he comes to her every time... (And he's the bits of yellow which sprung and dances and fills the world with glimmers of hopes and stands as the brightest of winners).

.

At one point, they might have fallen in love with one another.

The way her tip toes lands on the earth and the way he would silently listens. His palms digs onto the ground, hearing the steps she takes- and just like that, his heartbeat thumps calmly, almost as if saying; _she's here, and everything's okay_. Katara has the same effect, but not as stronger. Even when they're kissing (the way her soft lips graces against his rough lips, her dark brown hair twirls in between his fingers, her much darker skins make contact with his)- it never could match the time when he's just there, sitting next to _her_ (with her pale feet plants on the dirty dirt, and her green clothes smeared with mud, and the mischievous smile which almost make him feels more alert, _more alive_).

.

He's taller over the years, mature and wiser.

His once childish face turns into a serious one, his gray eyes are piercing with every intention of keeping whatever peace they have in the world intact like that. And he holds her, his lover, his queen, the apple of his eyes, with such strength that would melt every women to the floor and the husky voice that would make her- the brilliant, brilliant, brilliant blue he would forever devoted to- heart races a million times over.

But whenever he's with her- after training with his shirt off and sweats covering his body, and she's just there underneath the pile of dirt and mud she loves so much- he's never the tough one. He's never the wiser one, never the mature one. He stands so much taller than the petite her- the gorgeous, incredible, wonderful green he would forever remember for the rest of his life- and yet, he feels as though he's much more smaller. She has always been wiser, or more mature and he never feels how he feels when he's around the brilliant blue. And that should be a problem, except,

...he feels young. He feels _free_. Covered in mud, and sweats and dirt, he laughs alongside with her and she's kicking him in his torso and he's nudging her playfully and she's grinning like the world is only for theirs to own. And she's holding him with the roughest way and all he needs to be is, himself.

.

But things don't always fall together as we expect them to be.

He had always belong with the brilliant blue- they say, both of them represent the true definition of calm, peacefulness.

She had always grow intent with the dirt, the gorgeous green- they say she had grown quiet as the wedding date grows closer.

.

The blue, the yellow become one. And years, after years- although it all seems as it fly in five short seconds- the green and the yellow's bond weaken. Loosen. He's the muscular man, stand tall with great powers over his hands, and the world burden over his shoulders (like it's anything new), belongs to only one. The woman with graceful manners and hands of a mother, soft and careful. The brown locks braided by the side of her face, while the rest of her flawless hair falls behind her like waterfall. She's the queen- and everybody can see why he chose her.

He holds her hands in his much larger ones, and holds it for the world to see. Oh how proud he is to have her, and how lucky they are, to have found one another. It was a perfect story- love at first sight, love that will last forever.

(But can't you see? By the corner... by the far corner, there is a petite girl that looks like a doll, but stands as if she's a statue. Her bangs covers most part of her face, and a part of her raven hair is tied in a perfect bun, but the rest falls in tangled and curls and wavy manners. Her fingertips are rough and hard, and if he had held her hands instead- they defined something much more, something most would take time to understand; that there is no such thing as perfect, but opposites, the exact different, the imperfections that holds the world together. Something you least expected makes the world the way it is, it makes a _beautiful_ story)

.

She's sitting down, much much older now - but things doesn't change by much- with her daughter training besides her.

The young earth bender stops, her shorter raven hair plasters on her sweaty cheeks and she could feel her daughter's eyes trained on something she shouldn't. Their son- the product of blue and yellow, the perfect match, the perfect calmness- walking in the far distance. The harsh breathing of her daughter's rings in her ears, and she takes a deep breath. Her daughter looks over to her mother for a short glance, before continuing back training. But there's a different pace in her steps- much more rougher, much more stronger, she's trying way too hard than she ever is.

She ducks her head to the ground, her toes carving into the sand and her nails picking up dirt. They're just the same, her daughter and herself.

(_likemotherlikedaughter_)

She senses the young son's eyes- he has the light steps of his father, and the softest of his mother- on her daughter, and she almost drawls out unwanted laughter. It's all too confusing, too crazy, too _familiar_ (they say, 'those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it', and maybe they're right. Neither she nor him, the illuminating yellow, have ever said anything to their children). She could feel the son's staring- _intense, deep, something-there-that-shouldn't-be_ - and she lets out a shaky breath.

(_likefatherlikeson_)

They're all broken cycle, repeating itself only to find such doomness.

Search carefully, analyze patiently- and you will realize the world moves in patterns. In a circle. It goes on, and on, and on, and on...

and you wonder when is it ever going to end?

.

And maybe, it won't ever end.

_**Fin**_.


End file.
